William

Was not the man before me the same nobleman I had met in the garden—tall, with sharp features and eyes like warm amber? If I remembered rightly, his name was William. My mind raced for a moment, replaying our last encounter: his cold words about wanting to see my head on a high wall, the tension in his stance as he’d stared me down. Before I could decide whether to accept or reject his offer, he reached out with slender, calloused fingers—likely from years of swordplay—and pulled me gently onto the dance floor, where couples twirled beneath crystal chandeliers that cast a soft, golden glow over everything. William placed one hand lightly on my waist, his touch so faint I could barely feel it, as if he were afraid to overstep. His other hand clasped mine, his grip firm but not tight, and we fell into the rhythm of the waltz. His footwork was graceful and fluid, like he’d been dancing since childhood, while I stumbled along, my shoes nearly catching on the hem of my gown. Based on how li